Whispers
by AbominableDante
Summary: Loosely based off the novelization of the movie. Come and discover.
1. Appetizer

**Author's Notes: **Okay, this is just directly quoting from the novelization of the movie (which I liked better anyway), a nice little prequel to refresh your memories.

**Disclaimers: **I do not own Any of the characters or the story Constantine, be it in the movie or the book.

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Prequel: Appetizer

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"He looked at her. Thinking that he wanted to go the next step with her, if she wanted that too. But there were things he wanted to do first. And maybe she wouldn't be interested anyway-could be he was just putting off the inevitable rejection. A relationship with him would be a constant reminder of the things she'd wanted to put behind her. Literally: her time in Hell, among other things. Still…she wasn't looking at him like she wanted to put John Constantine behind her… 

"…The way she'd said it…_see you around?_

"Just a tone of voice, but defiantly: an invitation.

"And going down the fire escape, thinking about Angela and God and Heaven, Joh Constantine had a strange sensation, a strange feeling deep inside him. What was it exactly? It was something he hadn't felt in a long, long time, and it too him a while to recognize the feeling.

"It was hope."

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-Pages 319-321 of Constantine, a novelization by John Shirley 


	2. Rebirth

**Author's Notes: **Wow, on this site it looks all official and stuff. Neat.

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Chapter 1: Rebirth

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_Los Angeles, Ravenscar Hospital

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_

Two years of courtship, a year of marriage and nine months of pregnancy later and he was a father. An honest to God dad.

He was also considering taking up smoking again just so he'd stop pacing in the waiting room. The gore of birthing a child he could take, but Angela's psychic backlash was giving him a headache from here, never mind being in the same room with her. He'd nearly fainted.

A nurse came out of the swinging door and his head shot up, scowling at her face to see if she was one he could recognize. He couldn't, so he went back to his pacing, chewing on the painkillers he'd juts popped into his mouth and swallowing their chalki existence without water. He gagged slightly when the remains stuck in his throat and glaned around for a vending machine where he might get a soda. He was relatively sure he could hold down a soda, even though his stomach was knotted almost to the point of pain.

It felt like the motion sickness he used to get as a child in the car, small and apprehensive as his mother drove him to the psychiatrists, some years before his internship as a full-time patient in the dilapidated sanitarium.

He made a disgusted noise at the memory and jammed his change into the machine, reaching down to retrieve his pepsi when he noticed a pair of white tennis shoes coming toward him. The nurse, this one he remembered, was practically beaming. He paused in opening his soda to let her speak, his throat tight.

_Please let them be all right._

An unnecessary prayer. She wouldn't be so damn jovial otherwise.

"You have a healthy baby boy, Mr. Constantine. Come and see," she said, her voice cheery as she motioned him through the swinging doors to the maternity ward. She pushed him through the doorway and took his soda away before he could drop it like he almost dropped his jaw.

On the white bed, tucked gently against the pillows was Angela, tired and sweating and beautiful with new motherhood. It was a change in her eyes he had noticed developing from the past few months, now fully awakened as they gazed down at the tiny face bundled in her armful of white blankets. He moved closer and sat down on the side of the bed, peering down at the closed eyes and bulbous nose that would most certainly turn out to be his once the fat was gone.

"John," Angela whispered softly, the smile in her voice as evident as if he'd looked up at her. He hadn't, his eyes caught on an oddity he hadn't noticed before, a change in the air around the small form. She lifted the child up, asking if he would hold him. He didn't move, frozen, furious and terrified.

"John?"

He got off the bed quickly, shooing the nurse out and shutting the door behind her. He turned around, facing the bed, able to see it now that he could clearly look at it.

"It isn't human," John whispered, horrified. Didn't God like him now that he'd saved the world? Why would He do this now? Why now?

Angela frowned at him, holding the creature against her chest protectively.

"I know. But he is still our child, John."

"You've gotten over the shock pretty quickly," he threw out, eyes narrowed in suspicion, "You knew ahead of time…"

"Yes. Midnight told me a few months ago," she admitted, glancing down at the child. She stroked its forehead gently as it shifted and whined softly.

"You didn't tell me."

"You would've reacted like this no matter what I'd done."

John scowled at the child, _his _child…Venturing closer. His shoes clicked loudly on the cold linoleum floor in the waiting silence. He reached out for the child, taking it from Angela's cautious arms and arranging it until it was safe in one arm, it head balanced against his chest and bicep as he tucked the blankets tight again around the small form. He carried the child to the window, opening it to let in the breezy morning air and harsh fumes.

He knew the aura that came from this creature. He'd met it once before, in his childhood days when he still believed that was he saw was all an act of the imagination.

"Welcome to Earth, Michael," he sighed, a slight smile creasing his face, "I hope you do great things."

"Michael?" Angela's voice came, breaking into his thoughts pleasantly, "That's his name."

Not a question, a fact, a realization, a truth. She smiled at them both.

"And he does have pretty wings," she added. John only nodded and leaned down to kiss that bulbous nose.

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_Fin Chapter 1_

_Please Review_


	3. Sacred

**Author's Notes: **I apologize for the delay in posting, and it _has_ been a delay since I was working on my other fics. I'm not great at multitasking.

Enjoy.

/ ... / JOI (John's Overactive Imagination)

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Chapter 2: Sacred

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_Angela's Apartment, Los Angeles

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_

The child was an oddity, from his black head to his slightly pigeon-footed stance. Five years old and his fingers were still pudgy and clumsy, but his voice was lovely. Quiet and musical, not at all like the warrior he embodied. John had set the boy up with sword fighting lessons and tutoring with Midnight on top of his own household education. The boy wasn't even in kindergarten yet, but he knew the difference between the types of ghosts and demons and angels and the names of the more important of the supernatural races. He knew how to secure an area from psychic forces and understood that talking about ghosts and strange beings in public was a punishable crime, usually with the removal of his afternoon cookie.

Angela was back on the force, and had been since the boy's first birthday, leaving her husband and son to look after one another. John had taken to his assignment as the child's primary guardian seriously and found he rather enjoyed it. Michael was a quick boy, intuitive and empathetic, who could be trusted to be left alone for a short while when given explicit instructions by his father. Only on rare occasions had he ever been left alone, only for a half hour at a time, only when the infamous Constantine was needed, only during emergencies.

When John got home a half hour later, his son would be waiting by the door, as if he'd known exactly when he stepped foot in the apartment building and punched the button to the elevator. He would swing the boy from the floor into a tight hug and spin around, the child high about his head, mimicking flight. Michael couldn't fly yet, his wings would be too weak from some years to come, but he always enjoyed pretending. When Angela got home hour later, John and Michael would be curled up on their respective sides of the sofa, reading aloud from the magazines and beginner's books or speculating about supernatural forces.

* * *

John snapped out of his dreamy state and reached for the gun under his pillow, aiming it at the bedroom door, blinded only slightly by the bright light that poured in and shadowed the tiny form that had opened it. The next moment he recognized the half-existent wings that rested at the shoulders of that small body, throwing pale shadows to the floor, like the ones created by light passing through glass. He set his gun on the nightstand.

"Michael? What's wrong?" he whispered. Angela hadn't woken up yet, he didn't want to disturb her.

The boy moved inside, into the shadows and to the side of the bed, half a ghost himself. His eyes were glowing from the captured light reflecting from the mirror on the other side of the room, electric blue as a Siamese cat. They looked worried, the cupid's mouth turned down at the corners. John felt his heart clench, remembering.

This had happened once before. Michael came in at three in the morning, silent yet terrified, whispering about monsters under the bed. Not his bed, but theirs.

He hadn't lied.

The monsters, soldier demons possessing children's bodies, lay in wait under their bed, waiting for the order to rip through the mattress and kill them.

They hadn't even sensed them, not him, not Angela. Michael had warned them and saved them. He hoped this was not like that night.

"Daddy…" the voice came, a wavering whisper like a breeze, faintly brushing at the black bangs in his face.

"What's wrong?" he asked again, his voice matching his son's. He reached out to touch the boy's shoulder and was relieved when he didn't flinch away. Why he thought the boy would flinch, he wasn't sure. It might've been the look in those eyes.

"I had a bad dream."

Well, this was different.

John shifted aside and pulled the blankets down so the boy could crawl into his protective hold. He was shaking…the dream really must have been terrifying.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

The idea that boys got stronger by ignoring their feelings was bull. They had to be open in this household, since secrets, even emotions, especially emotions, could be used against one another by their enemies.

The boy shook his head.

"Okay," John sighed, tucking the boy's head under his chin, "It's okay."

Apparently it was. Michael was asleep moment later.

* * *

"Okay guys, I'm going. I'll be back at seven unless I'm on a job. You two try not to blow up the apartment or anything while I'm gone," Angela called as she slammed the front door. John was still in bed, growling his answer as he drowsed. Michael was curled around his mother's pillow, fast asleep. The alarm on John's side of the bed beeped and he clicked it off before it could wake his son. He sighed and shifted out of bed, stretching and heading for the bathroom to retrieve his robe before going to the kitchen and pouring a cup of coffee for himself.

He gagged when he turned and saw Michael at the kitchen table, huge blue eyes watching him with an alien expression, as if he was studying him.

"Jesus, Michael, don't do that!" he snapped, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand and coughing slightly. The too-hot coffee burned the back of his throat and he scowled at the boy, but heard no reply.

He did this sometimes, acted inhuman and curious. He'd pop out of nowhere, silent as a ghost, or disappear just as stealthily. John often felt as if he and Angela were being studied, being watched by the Big Man by some angelic force rather than his son. Yes, Michael was an angel, but couldn't he act more human?

"I want to talk abut my dream now," the tiny voice broke into his thoughts, musical and tantalizing. Would it be this pretty when he hit puberty? Would he even have puberty? John turned a kitchen chair around and sat down, reaching for the newspaper and scanning the front page.

"So talk," he ground out from behind his paper, lifting his cup to drink again.

"You're going to die today."

He spat his coffee out, the brown liquid splattering across the newspaper, the faces becoming blotchy and ugly. He slammed it down on the table and stared at his son. The hand that was holding his coffee cup was shaking, but he hardly noticed it. The boy looked unmoved, staring at the wall beyond him, but not seeing it.

"What?"

"Need I repeat myself?"

Sometimes he was too well spoken for a five-year-old. Angela thought that maybe it was the angelic blood or soul that resided in his form that gave him that gift. John just knew he wasn't looking at his son; he was looking at the archangel who was renown for slaughtering humans as well as monsters for a sin as simple as looking at one's neighbor with contempt.

But those were rough times.

"So I'm going to die…today. May I ask why?"

"That is your right," the angel answered simply, his voice showing a disinterest in the subject he was speaking of, as one would about road kill.

/'You see that deer?'

'Hmm…'

'Big 'un.'

'Yeah, I guess.'/

"But you're not going to tell me, are you?" John asked, feeling perceptive as those eyes finally focused on him. Something burned within their depths, something he hadn't seen in them before…fear, regrets?

"I am not prohibited to even tell you your fate."

"What's one more rule?" John asked carelessly, leaning back slightly, "Or should I just take up smoking again, for the hell of it?"

The angel-boy shuttered at the word, turning his head in disgust, spitting prettily on the floor. It was entirely unlike him, and yet it seemed an absolutely natural reaction, a habit left over from his former life, perhaps?

"Rules are for those that follow."

"I doubt you are going to fall if you tell me. You haven't gone about and seduced pretty women, have you?"

"That's beside the point, John, so don't get smart with me." Ah yes, there it was…the rest of the angel hidden in that husk of a boy was finally revealing itself.

"That, coming from my own son," John laughed, "That's rich."

The boy's lip curled and he sat back in the chair, sulking.

"Wasn't my idea, killing you…"

"How very Oedipal of you…"

"Some of the others aren't too pleased with how you've been working recently. It isn't enough for them that you bothered yourself to not drop me out that hospital window."

"Couldn't have a baby's life riding on my conscious," John snorted.

"Forgive me for not thanking you," Michael sneered, reaching up the scratch his chin, "I have more than just you to worry about. I have Angela to keep an eye on, and you know she's a handful on her better days."

"I don't suppose she's told you she's been having less of those recently?"

"I hear things. I'm not deaf," the angel said matter-of-factly.

"Listening at door too…so when is Uriel going to bring you up on charges?"

"What did I say about getting smart?"

John paused, watching the angel that moved within his son and felt the question that had been plaguing him for years rising up through his throat. It was out of his mouth before he could stop it, his voice almost whining.

"Why are you here, anyway? Why aren't you like those normal kids in the park? Is this some kind of big ethereal joke?"

The boy had the decency to look both annoyed and hurt, his eyes shining. He looked like he was going to leave the room in a huff, but he didn't. The voice that came out of him was chilling and John desperately fought the urge to flinch at it.

"You should know by now that we, unlike daemons, don't have a sense of humor. We have better things to think about than our own amusement."

"You didn't answer my questions," John remarked, holding on to enough dignity to sound unafraid. He had no idea if his face showed it.

"Yes, I'm here for a job and nothing more. I'm here to keep you and Angela out of trouble. You two are too important to let go right now and we don't want you two where we can't keep an eye on you. I'm here for defensive purposes."

"A bodyguard? I'm being protected by a five-year-old?"

"One day you'll be grateful for the fact that I am not like those kids in the park, that I can fight. And no, this isn't a joke."

"Than why are you supposed to kill me?" John asked almost casually, debating whether or not he could chance drinking his coffee after two failed attempts.

"Never mind that. The details aren't important as of this moment, though I do suggest you go get dressed and make an effort about warding angelic types when choosing your wardrobe."

The boy hopped off of his chair and slid it over to the counter, where he climbed back on and selected a large knife from the chopping block and knife holder. It was already blazing with holy and unholy symbols and John felt his skin crawl at the sight of it.

Wait, that meant…

"They're coming? Now?" he asked, his voice suddenly filled with horror. He could deal with one angel, maybe two, but the lower ones didn't usually work alone, not like spies and other agents.

"They should be within your sensory range in about three and a half minutes. I suggest you get dressed."

"And what makes you think you can fend them off?"

"I don't plan on fending anything off if I don't have to. I just need to have a talk with who's in charge," Michael replied, looking up at John with a smile, his eyes luminous with resigned rebellion, "It will be good to speak with Uriel face to face, rather than via dreams. I dislike it when he interrupts my dreams, since this is the first lifetime I've experienced them."

John nodded silently, comprehending, as he moved to the bedroom again. Did that mean that Michael had been gathering information and communicating with the other archangels (or higher) in his sleep?

Well, that explained how he managed to be so human and not talk to himself in his waking hours. Imaginary friends only slipped by society's crazy-radar for so long until someone called him schizophrenic.

He pulled on his pants and shirt and jammed as many articles as he could find into his pockets, hanging a pentacle around his neck, just for good measure. When he came back into the kitchen, Michael had lined the door with carvings in a language he only vaguely remembered. The boy was perched on his chair, surrounded by a number of homemade household weapons and other makeshift barriers. It must've been claustrophobic, but Michael was handling it well, he was reading the comics.

He felt the wave of angelic power slam into him almost like a physical force and he shivered slightly. The boy didn't move.

"Who's in charge of the outfit coming?" John asked, taking his seat at the table as if everything was normal. He didn't touch his coffee. It was cold anyway.

"Filarial. You wouldn't know her," Michael replied without even looking up from the newspaper, "She works closely with Uriel. Some have said they were lovers, but Uriel denies the whole thing."

John laughed quietly, thinking how much like celebrities angels could be.

Michael was looking at him with a strange expression and John stopped laughing abruptly, feeling guilty somehow. It was starting to feel like confession…he loathed confession.

"Daddy…"

John blinked.

"Michael?"

The boy slipped off of his chair and grasped the knife he had taken from the counter before. He walked to the door and took hold of the knob, unlocking it and twisting it slowly.

He looked back at John sadly, smiling again.

"I love you."

And he opened the door.

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_Fin Chapter 2__Please Review _

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**Other Author's Notes: **Chapter three? It'll pop into my head eventually. In the mean time, Fight Club came on today. I do believe it's the only movie that Brad Pitt is in and I don't feel the urge to retch.

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**To My Readers: **

**ColorXMeXFake**: Brilliant? Certainly? (smiles, whips off top hat and sinks into a deep bow) Why, thank you! I will defiantly write more for such wonderful praise!

**Issay**: I was hoping for unique when I wrote this. It seems I have succeeded. Thank you very much for your kind reviews!


	4. Normalcy

**Author's Notes: **So I have a job now, a second job and no free time. I'm a middle class kid, right out of high school and I have practically no summer. I'm not complaining about the jobs, I love them both and I love the money they're bringing me, but I have to hate them on principal.

Here's your chapter. The fourth is in storage while chapter five is being compiled.

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Chapter 3: Normalcy

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_Angela's Apartment, Los Angeles

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_

The door creaked softly, heavy with spells and newly-applied magicks. Under his hand, the brass doorknob was cool and smooth, not unlike Gabriel's ancient trumpet, which he had so lustrously played not so long ago. Not long enough, Michael thought bitterly, the fallen one was still alive and wandering about this plane.

His secondary duty as a human here was to hunt the traitor down, his orders from higher authority and his recruitment by way of an almost explicit amount of payments from the typically opposing party. As a spy, he could serve both sides and keep his own record clean, though his warrior's heart was repelled with the idea of service to any cause but his own. Even from other angels, he did not take to orders well. He never considered himself a soldier, and sometimes he felt he was the only one who could discern the difference.

Uriel would understand. Uriel understood everything. Filarial would have to take him to Uriel, he would make it so. Unlike other angels sent to earth, he had not been relieved of a large portion of his power. He hadn't understood until he had arrived and slipped out of his first year and a half of utterly human confusion that he would, indeed, need that power to keep track of his charges and fend off what he often thought of as 'predators', the terminology used to settle his human half when it rose against his duty to kill. He didn't like being human sometimes, he didn't like wrestling control from the grasp of the Constantine's child, whom he had possessed and bound himself with for both of their survival. Without the child, he wouldn't have a vessel and John would most certainly have thrown him from the window. In some strange sense, the man had known that on one level or another, Michael was still his son.

Without Michael, the baby wouldn't have survived its first few precious hours. Born with a heart deficiency that only magic could heal, the child's spirit had submitted easily to the terms of their agreement and grew easily alongside the strength of his angel half, combining them until they were no longer separate entities. On occasion, he would have a dual sensation of different opinions raging within him, but for the most part, there was harmony.

Filarial was standing outside, smiling nastily. Though she had always been quite tall, he felt unusually dwarfed standing in front of her. Her dark eyes flickered in recognition, sharp has he remembered and always full of challenge. She was a wartime spirit, who thrived on strife, personal or international. On all levels, she was the last angel he would've liked to appeal to at this moment. She thought that his venture into the human world would weaken him, make him soft. With the trembling he felt in his knees, he was momentarily inclined to agree.

"Michael," she greeted, her voice gruff and deep, "You've shrunk since we last spoke."

"Spare me the formalities, girl," he snorted derogatorily. He had to set his place in her mind, again. If he didn't stand up to her as his proper ranking, she'd look down on him for centuries. Though he didn't like the way she was glaring at him for his remark.

"I would invite you in, but I need you to go and fetch Uriel," he continued.

"I'm here for an execution, Michael, I'm no one's fetch dog."

Michael smiled darkly, his other hand gripping the handle of his spelled knife behind his back.

"On the contrary, Filarial, you're _my_ fetch dog," he corrected, making a shooing motion with his free hand, "Shoo. And don't come back without Uriel or expect a rather unpleasant greeting next time."

She couldn't refuse him. She was only a lower Angel, while he was an Archangel. He held the power at the moment, if only by diplomacy. She opened her mouth to retort, thought better of it, and turned to go, fuming silently. Her broad shoulders disappeared into the elevator and Michael waited until he sensed her leave the building before he let out his breath. He stepped back into the apartment and shut the door quietly.

John was watching him, both a little shocked and a little proud. The look filled the boy's chest with unhindered warmth and he couldn't suppress a small smile. He queasily walked back to the table and climbed onto his chair, setting the knife down on the varnished wood in front of him and letting his face down into his folded arms.

"I've bought us some time," Michael said from inside the dark safety of his arms, "Now I have to think of a realistic reason to protest your execution."

"Uriel isn't easily swayed," John pointed out, matter-of-fact.

"Uriel lets some things slip by, for me at least. After all, he's been my best friend since Lucifer's fall; certainly he can allot me one more favor. He enjoys holding debts over my head," Michael sighed as he sat up and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his stomach like a freshly fed elder. John looked at him, one brow frowning in curiosity.

"How much do you owe him?" the man asked. Michael flashed a dreadful look at him.

"Too much."

He could see his father's slight shiver and nodded vaguely.

Right thing, he should be afraid. Uriel was both his friend and his most dire opponent. They clashed as often as they agreed, sometimes changing sides of issues within moments of declaration. Sometimes they did it to slake their lust for battle, as their first instinct was to wage war rather than a younger angel's urge to strive for peace; sometimes it was to keep them in practice for what their experienced souls prophesized as the next great skirmish. There were always wars to fight, reasons to argue.

He just hoped his once closest companion would not abandon him now, when he was so desperate to save something for the first time in his existence. To have his father's blood on his hands…

His family was the only thing he'd ever wanted to protect since his first thought, his first breath of life, when he'd opened his eyes upon the face of God. He would die for God; he would die for his family. God could protect God well enough. His family, though, was precious and fragile, like a glass sculpture.

One breath to the sculpture, and it's spindly, multicolored beauty shattered into a million tiny fragments, fragments he was sure he could never pick up again.

Sometimes he thought he was put here so he would appreciate the human life.

Sometimes he thought it was out of spite.

* * *

"I sense them," John said softly, putting his newspaper down on the tabletop. He hadn't been reading since Michael had stiffened a few minutes ago. The boy was still silent; his chair turned to face the window, and didn't move until there was a knock on the door. John jumped a little in his chair, but Michael only slid from his seat and quietly padded to the door.

"Hello, Uriel," Michael greeted with false enthusiasm, "You can come in, but leave your pets out here."

"Polite as ever, Michael…" the archangel Uriel hummed gently, his voice like summer evenings, as he moved inside and Michael closed the door behind him. John started to his feet and nodded his head at Uriel out of respect. Uriel smiled and nodded back.

The archangel was tall, rail thin and androgynously beautiful, much like Gabriel, but black-haired and green-eyed. His clothes were of Renaissance style and a long saber was swinging at his hip when he moved. His wings were folded in brown-speckled glory at his back.

Michael sat down at the table and pulled his mug of milk over. Uriel joined him and John followed suit. All watched Michael silently, but the boy didn't speak. He sipped his milk loudly and with the vigor of a child, ignoring the other two completely until the mug was completely empty and upside down over his mouth. When he put the mug back on the table he looked at the two of them as if he had no idea why there were there.

"I was working on a very detailed case when I was called, I expect this to be important," Uriel growled, obviously irritated, but not enough to be angry.

"How much for his life?" Michael asked, straight to the point. Uriel looked a little confused and Michael motioned at his father. Uriel appeared as if he were going to start laughing.

"I don't believe I understand…"

"How much to save his life, stop the execution, exmay the curtains, if you may?"

"You're for real?" Uriel asked, disbelief apparent in his shocking green eyes.

"Real as the hair on my ass."

"You've no gift for romantic language…"

Michael tapped his fingers on the table, impatient. "Well?"

"I'm sorry…but I can allow-"

"Don't give me that bullshit Uriel, everyone can be bought!" Michael snapped, his voice powerful in the tiny Formica kitchen. Even Uriel paused. "Tell me how much and get the hell out of my house!"

"My house," John corrected softly. The two angels looked at him as if he'd appeared out of thin air. Michael narrowed his eyes, effectively silencing him.

"I can't, Michael."

Michael changed tactics lighting fast, going from angry to pleading in less time than it took to steal a car. The boy was out of his chair and grasping Uriel's hand before John's eyes could even follow.

"Please, Uriel. I've never asked for a life, but he's needed here. I'm dead serious; Angela can't handle everything here on her own…"

"You're here…"

"If you take him, then there's going to be a lot of H-E-double hockey sticks down here, more than we can deal with alone."

"H-E what?"

"Please, Uriel!"

There was silence for a few beats, where the two looked at one another, considering the next thing to do. It ended when Uriel sighed once, heavily and slipped his hand out of Michael's smaller grasp. Michael knew he'd won for now, but he didn't show it. He didn't even smirk.

"You've bought some time, then. But don't think this is going to go unpaid, Michael."

Michael smiled almost innocently as led Uriel to the door. "Of course, Uriel…"

As soon as the door closed, Michael punched air and whooped.

* * *

Angela was talking the moment she hit the door, groceries in both arms and cell phone wedged between chin and shoulder. She was directing, cursing and some other things both boys ignored as they stuck their heads in the paper shopping bags, looked around and switched. John silently helped Angela stock the cabinets and refrigerator and Michael looked on, feeling as pleased with himself as he had all day.

John still couldn't help identifying the kid with Angela's cat.

John gave his wife a kiss when she hung up the phone and went back to cooking supper, which involved ripping the box open, dumping the food on a plate and punching numbers into the microwave. Angela gave Michael a hug as she passed him on the way to the master bedroom.

"So we finally closed a case, the one on the drug dealers, remember?" she said as she kicked off her shoes and changed into her pajamas, "But we got a new one right after that, so I've got Carlos working on some prints for me, but he keeps complaining that they were partials. It isn't my fault, though, because the C.S.I.'s were supposed to get them. And-" she continued for several minutes later.

Angela changed and make-up free sat down in a chair across from Michael and smiled at both her boys.

"So, what did you two do today?" she asked.

They looked at one another for a split second, deciding to resort to a classic excuse. It didn't do to worry Angela, she was busy.

They shrugged.

"Nothing much," John said as he pulled the nuked suppers out of the microwave and dropped them on plates.

"I learned to tie my shoes," Michael said with a smile. Angela smiled back and forked her supper.

"That's great! We'll get you some big boy shoes this weekend, then. How's that sound, sweetie?" she said cheerfully, easily pretending she had a normal family waiting for her at home. It was easier to deal with, John was sure.

Michael didn't skip a beat.

"Okay."

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_Fin Chapter 3_

_Please Review

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**Author's Notes: **Its 64 degrees in my room. It's June and it's 64 degrees in my room!

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**To My Readers: **

**Issay**I made someone's day. That's unusual. (feels praised)

**fanficgeek**I can't stop writing this fic with such great reviews! And it's interesting…

Sorry about the errors. I get lazy with editing after the second or third run through.

And I'm not sorry about the cliffhanger. How else could I get you guys to come back?

**Hey: **Sweetheart, if you had read the author's notes in previous chapters, you would know that I am not writing this based on the movie, but the novelization of the movie which is based on the very famous comic Hellblazer.

Thanks for the feedback anyway.


	5. Sinners

**Author's Notes: **Eat Greek.

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Chapter 4: Sinners

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_Los Angeles, Oak Park Primary School

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He remembered ancient times, when the angels and demons were allowed on the Earth to do their business, before the balance. It was before the Christians, but not the Jews, who had long forgotten Canaan. He remembered the wars, the magic in the kill, when he felt the spray of demon's blood upon his face and the hiss and curse of those that fell to his sword. He recalled the beauty of humans falling to their knees before him and begging for mercy, which he couldn't give for the sake of his unforgiving master.

God was not so belligerent at that time; he was serious in his holy youth.

After the balance, though, he had missed only one thing and this thing terribly. He and Gabriel, whenever there was a short period between enforcing God's law, would fly as high as they could into the crystal blue sky (before pollution), clamp their wings against their backs, and plummet nose-first at the ground, pulling up a split second before impact.

He guessed Gabriel had missed it as well, with what he'd done not ten years ago. And now the poor bastard didn't even have wings…he was human now.

Poor dumb bastard. Gabriel had always been a little crazy, though. He couldn't say he'd been surprised to find out what he'd done after his…dismissal.

And now Michael had to look for him, search to punish his former friend. It should've sickened him, but he'd half expected it for centuries. It was only a matter of time before Gabriel snapped; all he'd had to do was wait.

* * *

Michael shuffled his feet and clutched his books tightly to his chest. He felt filled to capacity with a purely human terror and John had a hand on him, just in case he decided to bolt.

"Why do I have to go to school?" the boy asked, looking at the dull brick building with both distain and anxiousness. "I already know how to read and to do math…"

"Social interaction," John said easily. He smiled at his son. "Don't worry, you'll be fine."

"But their human kids…"

"You're half human." John countered.

"But their dumb."

"Michael!"

The boy flinched and tugged at the arm John was still holding. The fingers wrapped around his pudgy arm didn't budge and he sighed, defeated. Angela had already ordered him to go, and he couldn't disobey his mother no matter how much he wanted to, so he couldn't expect a break. He felt a little queasy.

"I'll walk in with you," John offered. Michael drew himself up proudly and shook his head.

"No."

John sighed and released the arm. "I'll pick you up at three, then. Don't cause any havoc."

"You insinuate that I make it a daily occurrence." Michael sniffed.

"And don't think you're going to talk your way out of this, either."

Michael slumped in his seat and glowered out at the building again. He groaned and pushed the car door open.

"Three o'clock, Dad," he checked as he pulled his backpack on.

"Three o'clock."

* * *

This normalcy thing, he could never get used to. He knew the children his age couldn't spell their own names or have interest in something politically related, but it was entirely different to experience it. Once failing at carrying on six conversations, Michael settled down in a corner designated something cheesy like the 'reading corner' or the 'reading station' with a picture book. He'd read them all by the time 'school' was over and shuffled out the door to wait for his father. His teacher tried to ask him something cute, like his name and his favorite color to keep him occupied, as if he'd looked bored.

"Constantine, Michael and Blue," he said flatly, adjusting the straps on his navy-blue backpack. As if it hadn't been obvious.

"Are you waiting for your mommy?" she asked, his snide voice flying right past her. He felt she was as stupid as the children she worked with and was therefore in the perfect career position. At the same time, he hated her guts and her lovely red ponytail.

"My father said he would be here at three, but he'll probably be a few minutes late," Michael replied, "My mother is LAPD."

"Oh, really? And do you know what LAPD is?"

"I do. Do you?" he asked sharply. The woman only laughed.

"Of course I do. You're a smart little boy aren't you?"

"You have sex with your students, don't you?" he replied snarkily. She stopped the sweet and sugary act and looked at him, really stared at him. He saw a great many things with his angel eyes.

"Excuse me?" she asked, her voice dark with the threat that adults felt they could use as power over children his age. She thought the idea of getting grounded was equal to the world ending in his eyes.

"You're excused. I'm going to the office to call my LAPD mommy and tell her you're a pedophile. And if you didn't know, sleeping with minors is illegal," Michael said, tapping his temple with the tip of his finger. "Should've stayed in school, madam."

He turned and went to the office. The police stopped by minutes later and he watched with an almost evil glee as they shoved her into the back of the black and white and drove away.

He hoped every day of school was this exciting.

* * *

"What did I tell you about havoc?" John snapped the moment Michael slid into his seat and closed the door. John stepped on the gas and the boy snapped his seat belt on, just for safety.

"Your mother called and told me you got your teacher arrested. On the first day!"

"She slept with her students. She deserved to be in jail," Michael explained, "Actually, she deserved the wrath of God, but I'm not designated for that anymore."

"On the first day!"

Michael shrugged and let John rant. Even if his father was mad, Angela would praise him for weeks afterwards, saying he had that police blood in him. His childish half fluttered at the idea of it.

"How did you even know, anyway?" John finally asked. Michael smirked at him, flashing blue eyes when they braked for a light.

"Trade secret."

"Snoop."

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_Fin Chapter 4_

_Please Review_


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